A Function of Murder (18 page)

After my talk with Kira at the Coffee Filter, I was close to concluding that the relationship
was all in her mind. Either way, I didn’t want to be responsible for what would happen
when the facts came spilling out into reality.

In the end, I wimped out, deciding not even to ask whether there was some reason she
didn’t want to go to city hall alone. “Wouldn’t all your friends from the campaign
headquarters be attending? Or Jeanne and the others?” I asked.

“I don’t exactly have a lot of friends at headquarters.
None that I can call up, anyway. And Jeanne is going to hook up with her boyfriend
in Boston for the rest of the week before she starts her summer job, and Bethany is
so out of here, packing for this trip out west. Nicole—I don’t even want to know if
she and her family plan to pay their respects. So will you come with me, Dr. Knowles?”

I needed a stall. “I’ll have to see what the college administration is planning, Kira.
In case it overlaps.”

“Okay, I understand.”

I hated that she sounded so despondent. “Is anyone around the dorms today?” I asked.

“No. I might take off myself. I have to leave by the end of the week anyway, when
they close for a month. I might crash at Megan’s after that. Or maybe Bethany’s cousin
Matt’s. One of Matt’s roommates might be moving in a few days. Or I might stay with
a friend of Jeanne’s.”

That was a lot of “mights” to hang one’s living arrangements on. I’d forgotten what
it was like to crash anywhere there was a couch or a patch of bare floor. Between
my junior and senior years in college, I’d backpacked through Germany carrying a couple
of changes of clothes, a tour book, and a toothbrush. I’d made no reservations, landing
here and there, connecting with other “kids” on a tour now and then, finding a hostel,
or curling up on my backpack on someone’s living room floor. I often didn’t know from
one day to the next which train I’d take to the next city, or where I might spend
the night.

At some point in the last twenty years, I’d replaced that spirit of adventure with
one of stability, as good a word as any to describe my current lifestyle. I was now
attached to my little cottage, with its bright yellow kitchen and cozy den. I loved
my home office and my lavender bedroom, even my washer and dryer. In my travels now,
I traded only
up
, adding amenities like maid service and breakfast in bed. Bruce and I hiked often
on vacation, during the day, but I liked the security of knowing I’d be taking my
shower
at night in a modern facility with towels even larger and more plush than the ones
I owned.

“Dr. Knowles, will you call me and let me know if you’ll go to city hall with me?”

I’d almost forgotten the start of the conversation. “I’ll call you, Kira. I’d better
go now and take this other call.”

A call that might possibly come in. I was becoming hopeless as a role model. As I
brooded over this, my cell vibrated once, spinning a bit next to my keyboard. A text
from Bruce with a quick message: “ETA 15.”

I left my office to put water on for coffee and set the table—the least I could do.

Buzz. Buzz.

Bruce was early. Why was he ringing the doorbell? Unless he forgot his key. I went
to the door.

And opened it to the police.

Virgil Mitchell wiped his feet on my outdoor mat, out of habit, and entered the kitchen.

“I see you were expecting me,” he said, glancing at the table set for two.

“Uh-huh, but I’d better add a third place, in case Bruce drops in.”

Virgil laughed and plopped down on a high stool by my kitchen island, one that I had
to climb up to. He was in his Sunday best—jeans and an HPD polo shirt. His old brown
briefcase looked out of place at his side. I gathered it meant he wasn’t off duty,
simply off dress code.

“A beer?” I asked.

“Just water.”

No beer, and his smile had already disappeared. Virgil was definitely on duty.

I set a large glass of ice water in front of him and took a seat on a stool opposite
him. “Having a good day?” I asked, mimicking his downturned expression.

“If you mean did I keep my cool while a guy in handcuffs reminded me that his taxes
pay my salary and if I lay
a hand on him he’ll get his second cousin’s friend’s wife who answers the phones at
a law firm to figure out how to sue me and the whole department.”

I pushed the package of cookies that I’d opened at lunch toward him. “Makes my day
seem like a party,” I said.

He snagged a handful of chocolate snaps and seemed to swallow one whole, then pulled
a folder out of his briefcase. “Our tech guys spent the morning dumping the mayor’s
computer. These are some of the emails from the past week.” He slid the folder across
the counter, working around the pile of catalogs, this morning’s juice glass, and
a bowl of fruit that had seen better days. Bruce was due to tease me about never making
good on my promise to bake banana bread with the overripe stock.

“They got to this pretty quickly,” I said.

“They printed out the easy ones, still in his inbox. Now they need to go in and get
the ones that were deleted. And remember, this is the mayor we’re talking about. Things
have a way of moving a little faster than normal.”

I opened the folder and riffled through more than a dozen sheets of paper. All of
them were emails from Kira to the mayor, dated within the past week. Certain sentences
stood out as I flipped through, growing more agitated with each one.

I blew out a slow breath and tucked the emails back into the folder. My theory that
the relationship was in Kira’s
mind was now on rocky ground. “Did he respond to any of these?”

“Not that we found so far.” Virgil sucked in his cheeks. A sign that he was unhappy
about something. And that it most likely had to do with the person sitting in front
of him. Me. “Is there something you should have told me about this student, Sophie?”

I knew he didn’t want to hear that Kira was from a small town in the Central Valley
of California, that she was nearly six feet tall, on the heavy side, with a short
bob that resembled Fran’s, but looked better on Fran. “She was one of this year’s
valedictorians,” I offered. “With a grant for graduate work at MIT starting in about
a month.”

He let out an exasperated breath, which I should have expected. I wasn’t trying to
be difficult, merely protective of Kira while I thought about how to respond. I thought
about invoking teacher-student confidentiality. If there wasn’t such a thing, there
should be.

“You know that’s not what I’m after. I got that much and more from the interviews
the officers did at the scene. I probably could have gotten it from the printed graduation
program or the write-up in the newspaper. But she wasn’t just another onlooker at
the fountain that night, was she?” Virgil tapped the folder with his index finger.
“This Kira Gilmore”—I thought better of correcting him as he pronounced her first
name to rhyme with Sky-rah, instead of with Key-rah—“was one of your math majors.
And I know the kind of teacher you are, Sophie. You get close. Were you aware of this
relationship?”

I swallowed. “Not exactly.”

He heaved a sigh of annoyance and gave me a long-practiced withering look. “Sophie?”

“There was talk.” I held up my hand. “I’d hardly even call it talk. More like innuendo.
Until today.”

“And today?” Virgil made circling motions with both his hands, as if to hurry me along.

“Today she did mention to me that she loved him. But that’s all.”

“She said she loved him, and you didn’t think that would be something to pass on to
me?”

“It just happened this morning. And I’m not even sure there’s anything behind it.
If I went to you with every dormitory rumor, you’d never get any work done.”

“I’m the best judge of that. Is there any other little dormitory rumor you want to
tell me about?”

“No. Look, Kira may be a brilliant student, but she’s very immature. I don’t think
she’s gone on a date in the four years that I’ve known her, and that would include
with boys her own age or with the mayor.”

“You’re saying this could all be in her head.”

I nodded. “I think it could be, yes. My guess is that’s the case.”

“And you think that’s enough to clear her of murder?”

I swallowed hard. Of course it was. Along with many other things, like the fact that
Kira was incapable of hurting someone, other than herself. Disloyal as it seemed,
I told Virgil about Kira’s pitiful attempt to blame Nicole.

“She didn’t even know the weapon the killer used,” I told Virgil.

“That’s what she made you think. She’s a smart girl.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t seem to make Virgil understand. “Maybe when we see the
mayor’s replies to these emails, we’ll know for sure whether there was anything real
between them.”

“Love how you say ‘we,’” Virgil said.

I wanted to remind Detective Mitchell that he’d come to me with the folder now resting
between us, not vice versa. I had the feeling that one of his prime reasons for coming
was to scold me for not mentioning Kira’s crush on the mayor.

The sound of a key turning in the lock, signaling the arrival of Virgil’s best buddy,
saved me from possible arrest for dissing an officer of the law, which I was ready
to do.

Bruce, who’d lovingly arranged for a ride to pick up my car at the shop, set down
groceries that smelled good even before they were simmering on the stove, then gave
me a kiss. There was nothing like basil to please your olfactory glands and a kiss
from your boyfriend to set things right.

“Did you follow me to the market, or do you just have perfect timing?” he asked Virgil,
as they knocked knuckles.

Virgil sniffed the air, newly enriched by the presence of fennel and oregano. “Are
we having Italian?”

“Love how you say ‘we,’” I said.

“Touché,” Virgil said.

We didn’t bother explaining the repartee to Bruce, who was as busy as a housewife.

“I brought enough for an army,” he said. “I think I must be psychic.”

I knew I was, and I could hardly wait to tell Ariana about my remote sensing of Italian
food.

I always enjoyed dinner with Bruce and Virgil, especially when it was prepared by
Bruce, an excellent cook, and served by Virgil, who’d do anything not to cook for
himself.

Over a dinner of spaghetti with clam sauce, green salad, and Italian bread, I listened
to the two buddies swap war stories from their work life. It was a great way to forget
my own battles.

Tonight Virgil told us about a new dent on the hood of his car, made by a guy who
was resisting arrest. I didn’t want to think about which body part had been shoved
into the hard, unforgiving metal. Bruce countered with the wrestling skills required
to transport an unwilling senior citizen from one facility to another for treatment.

I was able to contribute a description of my current role as defendant in a trial
carried out on Facebook.

Thanks to my long conversation and support from Fran, I managed to downplay the trauma
my teaching persona
had suffered. The guys had enough to worry about every day as part of their regular
jobs, so I kept the Elysse Hutchins matter lighter than it felt to me.

“Kids these days,” I said.

They picked up on my tone.

“Let me know if you need muscle,” Bruce said, showing us his bicep.

“Remember I’m here to protect and serve,” Virgil said. “If it turns nasty, call me.”

I hated to think of those possibilities, but it was nice to know a couple of large
men were on my side.

I walked Bruce out to his car, briefing him on Kira’s plight. He was on his way home
to grab a nap before starting another twelve-hour shift at nine
PM
. We’d spent very little dinner time talking about current events, but I wanted Bruce
up-to-date on everything.